A Tragic Tale of Chemical Romance or The Parade
by fictionandfoxes
Summary: My interpretation of My Chemical Romance's "The Black Parade" with an expanded plot, which focuses on the newest Patient, venturing from his hospital bed to explore the glory of an afterlife, while also deciding whether life or death more appealing
1. Chapter 1

Darkness. Contrasted by the orangey haze of the flame. As the rest of the setting came into focus, a shadowy figure gazed onto the hideous scene before him. The one he always remembered.

The grey smoke suffocated him. He could faintly hear a medley of sounds, including a chorus of children, singing a tune from a playground far away. In the farthest end of his memory. He was in the building now. The same one that had been burning before him.

The wood creaked and warped as the fire ate away at its remaining fibers. Calm. The children's voices became clearer; it was as if they had blended into one several octave sound. The muffled blare of a marching band accompanied her softly.

"Ring around the rosie," it chimed. A man. In the bed, its white sheets tainted by his very presence. The man he knew. His face was flushed; eyes staring wide and defiant into the parading onslaught of black. He couldn't hide his terror. He wanted the voice to stop. The band was louder now.

"Pockets full of posie." The taste. Swallowing the bitter juices that poisoned his throat. Searing his veins. Torturous hours of pain. The man on the bed was still in agony. It was the figure's job to help. But not yet. The voice was getting louder, shaking the foundations of the burning home.

"Ashes, ashes." The house began to crumble. Ashes dropped like bombs on his eyelids, the sound of sirens accompanying their explosions. The man on the gurney felt them too. The lights flashed as they fell. The figures skin began to crack like the wood around him. A white vision of the man once again. Back to the burning edifice in which he occupied. He was crumbling along with the rest of the structure; insignificant; only there for support. Fragments of his muscles turned molten red as he felt himself disintegrating. Falling. Back to the ashes that he was born from.

He needed the voice to stop. It was only making it worse. The band didn't help either. It was much too soon. He found the voice through the shattered window, out in the grey, ambient world. He had seen it too much. It was facing the beyond. Beckoning for something, hand outstretched. To the bed. His hand was reaching out. The figure could feel him coming closer. It wouldn't be much longer now.

The memories came flooding back. There they were now, assailing him. Unforgiving. Rain had begun to fall, black drops dotting the child who had now turned towards the figure. Her pale face was accented by the black bar she had across her eyes, deepening the dark of her irises, which held his gaze until they turned towards a woman. Completely still. He hadn't noticed her before.

Another hospital image flashed before him as the girl grabbed hands with the woman. There were two children now. The woman was split between two shimmery figures. One was a woman he had known before. Black tears fell violently down her face. She had waited too long. The aura to her left wiped the woman's eyes gingerly with a white-gloved hand. The gasmask that occupied the auras face turned slowly towards the sound of the band, which had become a deafening roar.

Her warped dress frame rose to the edges of her torn corset. She held the children close. The man in the bed was almost there, his pale form glimmering faintly as it moved closer towards the woman. A flash of light and one last image of the bed. All that remained was a creased outline of where he had laid. The figure started to crumble as the band finally moved into focus with the woman, taking the white form of the man into their arms. The black-clad leader spared a moment for the figure, giving him a slight nod as he stared into his eyes. It was finished. The man had made his choice. The figure fell slowly, a silent pleading in his closed eyes as the group sealed his fate in unison.

"We all fall down."


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes flew open as he woke with a start.

He took in his surroundings, trying to catch his breath. It had been much too real. Everything ached, and his head felt like someone had dropped a bomb on it. Bomb. The ashes. Gurney.

He shook his head wildly, but it seemed as if it was a stuttered motion. He walked towards the huge black mirror that occupied most of his wall. He could faintly see the tattered edges of his latest dream, mixed carelessly into the abundance of random polaroids depicting the memories he wished to save.

He stared into its depths, banging his fist on the wall. He noticed the contours of his pale face, watching it flash its transparency as his skull came into view. The dark shadows that surrounded his eyes moved ever so slightly as he slowly raised his head.

It was time to leave. The dreams weren't usually so vivid. The gurney-man's subconscious had put up a strong fight. Taken too soon again, the figure supposed. His breathing still labored, he stumbled towards the window, sucking in ashy air. The sepia twilight shone bright, reminding him of the fluorescent ambience that defined his dream.

Reaching into his pocket quickly, he pulled out a cigarette, taking a long drag as he sighed. He stepped into his dusty overalls, putting on his cap firmly. This wasn't at all what he had expected when they told him it wouldn't hurt. Frankly, that was all it did; a dull roar shaking the back of his skull. He took a longing look into the mirror as he stubbed out the poorly used cigarette, his radio blaring the last of one of the better-known Parade songs, "WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"


	3. Chapter 3

Walking into town every morning was still a little unnerving. It was heavily populated; crowds of souls colliding in all sorts of directions. The whimpers of the orphaned complemented the eerie sound of the untuned chorus of instruments being played by street performers, vying for just one more chance. Although those didn't come often.

He shook his head slowly as he walked down one of the less fortunate avenues, surveying the humbling mass of the homeless, diseased, and useless. He noticed a scrawny violinist as he hurried past, noting the chains that encased her pale ankles. He could tell that she had once been beautiful; her lace dress may have been clean rather than caked in blood.

Yet it was only an echo of what once was. You couldn't live in two worlds. There were things that she hadn't yet let go of, things that were unsolved.

The black sockets of her skull-like apparatus followed a group of important looking women as they bustled toward the Main Hall, their rich dresses bouncing around them as they pranced. She turned towards him slowly, a silent wish on her face.

He couldn't help. How he wished selflessness was still an option; but if you had made a choice, chances are there wouldn't be any changing it. Which made chances of joining the ranks of the Socialites even slimmer.

Seeing his sympathy, she began to play the most beautiful collaboration of chords in A minor. Feeling a slight sense of hope with the man, other performers began to gather around, bringing their instruments. They joined the violinist, and the sound they produced could only be personified by the desolation around him. The notes wrapped together like the tubes of an IV, twisting through the ruined corners of the city streets. His mind faded once more to the gurney, covered in blood. The eyes of the man growing black.

He startled, surveying the crowd that had now gathered around him, begging for some sort of solace to their pain. Their moans and pleas almost overcame him as he gave a small coin to the violinist. She looked at him once more, flashing a putrid smile as he hurried along again. It was so hard not to give into his empathy.

A Cabaret girl whispered in his ear as he walked past, promising an experience he'd beg for in hell. He shook her off quickly, clearing her raspy voice from his ear. She stomped back over to her curb, muttering some sort of atrocity as she pulled her shorts up a tad higher.

Nearing his warped destination, he passed by the Certification office, noting the long line of spirits hoping for closure and a new life. A gloomy pageboy handed him a paper, somberly gazing towards a group of high-ranking souls as they laughed hysterically, making sure to keep their posture. The loudest of the group looked around as she cackled, looking for someone who might actually care.

The man grimaced, not sure whether to be disgusted or amused. "It's funny," the boy said, looking back at the man through his distraught blue eyes. "How some people are so comfortable in their masks."

Before he could ask any more, the paperboy was gone, off to his next customer.

The man flipped through the gray pages, halting when he reached the "DEAD!" section. 237 today. Mainly war-related deaths, with a few natural, malicious, and accidental's sprinkled in to keep interest. All accompanied by a welcome letter from Mother War.

He walked towards the manufacturing area of the scaffolding before him, stepping in a puddle of what looked like blood. Figures. The House of Wolves wasn't far away.


End file.
